


sorry

by raikkonen (armario)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Cutting, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm, be warned, but not really that relevant, extremely graphic depictions of self harm guys, set post silverstone 2019, where do I start??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-06-30 06:48:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19847770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armario/pseuds/raikkonen
Summary: Max could show Daniel the scar on his right side, the deep, heartbroken incision he made the night he found out his teammate was leaving Red Bull. But he won't, because he can see in Daniel's concerned eyes that that would hurt him just a little too much- the idea that he was responsible for any of these scars, even if he suspects it already.You're nothing special,Max wants to reassure him.Almost everyone I know has made their mark on my body.





	sorry

_People often try to keep self-harm a secret because of shame or fear of discovery._

_For example, if they're cutting themselves, they may cover up their skin and avoid discussing the problem._

_It's often up to close family and friends to notice when somebody is self-harming, and to approach the subject with care and understanding._

It could have been a great race. It was so nearly a great race. Vettel says sorry; Max gives him a bland half-smile. Sorry doesn't really cut it. 

_The only place that matters is first._

Max feels the tension start building up within him until he's almost vibrating, ready to explode. He needs to get away, from the press, from his team, from his fellow drivers. He'd already agreed to go for drinks with Daniel later that night, but he isn't in the mood so he goes straight back to the hotel room as soon as he can escape. 

"I'll see you there, alright, Max?" Daniel calls after him. 

"Yeah, sure," Max answers as he climbs into the car, wishing Daniel would just leave him alone. There's nothing he wants more than to sink into that hazy, not-quite-there feeling of sharp, sweet pain and endorphin rush, see how long he can make the ache and high last. Forget about everything except for cold metal gripped in his hand and the ticklish feeling of blood running down his legs.

He tries to think back to how and why this all started. It's hard because it's such a mix of things. Realising how much pain helps him calm down, after years of pressing absently into bruises and tugging frustrated at his hair until the pain washed the anger away. Looking at the razor blade that he used to shave for just a fraction of a second too long, wondering how hard it would be to break the blades out of the plastic. When kitchen knives became something other than tools to chop food with; when every pencil sharpener in the house was missing its blade.

He goes to the store and spends ten long minutes choosing the sharpest kitchen knife he can find. It's small, fitting snugly into the palm of his hand, but the blade is razor sharp. He resists the temptation to split the skin of his thumb open right then and there, and chooses some random vegetables to make his purchase seem more innocent instead.

When he gets back, he leaves the vegetables out on the counter top and locks the bathroom door behind him. His phone keeps ringing and making text alerts, so he puts it on silent, taking a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves.

Max is shaking with excitement to use the new blade. He holds it in his hand, tightens his grip because his palms are sweating.

He slides down his briefs. Years worth- almost five, now?- of scar tissue, ranging from thin, haphazard silver lines to thick, ugly, pink ridges map his thighs and hips. Some are fresh and still scabbing over.

In a way, he feels lucky. Other people don't get to see their tensions drain away right in front of them like this. It's so easy: when something goes wrong, go find a sharp implement. Done and dusted within a few minutes, a shower to wash the red away, and a sense of calm security washing back over him.

He drags the knife over his thigh. Not hard enough; a soft red mark remains that doesn't break the skin. His anxiety worsens, butterflies flutter up in his stomach and he's impatient to make it all stop.

This time, he presses in deeper, and cuts a little faster. There is no slow motion, only one moment, a gently marred canvas, and the next, an open wound that quickly fills and spills out.

"Fuck!" he shouts, then claps his hand over his mouth. He was caught completely by surprise and dark blood does not relent to spurt out of the wound.

"Max? You okay in there, mate?"

_Fuckfuckfuckfuck. Verdomme. Oh, fucking hell._ He's never cut this deep and he feels the terror spreading through him. He hadn't even heard Daniel come in. And so it begins; another moment of pure, bone-deep fear that he will never forget as long as he lives- which might not be much longer, because the blood is seeping sluggishly out and staining the uniform grey tiles.

_What if he dies?_

He's frozen in fear, mesmerized into watching the blood splatter onto the floor.

Max has been cutting for a while now. He keeps it to his hips and thighs so no one can see, and only when he's feeling this low. Maybe that's a really bad idea, because he's more likely to lose control, just like this.

He can't bandage this one up, he can't squeeze the wound shut with his fingers until it stops. He touches it anyway, can't stop himself. It's a little warmer than usual- he is so used to the surprise of how cool the blood feels smearing against his fingertips.

He has to let Daniel in. He has to face the shame, the judgement, the concern all over again, when he promised himself he'd never let another person find out. 

"No," he calls back. He stutters, he can hear the fear and bewilderment in his voice. When he looks up, he catches a glance of himself in the mirror and gasps weakly. Bloodshot eyes, sweat-soaked hair. His skin is paling, his fingers coming away red. He knows it's his imagination, slow seconds since he made the cut, but he feels dizzy and the world seems to be getting a little darker.

Daniel, sixth sense that he has, breaks down the flimsy hotel door, and Max squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn't have to watch the horror dawn on his friend's face.

"Hey, hey," Daniel murmurs, suddenly close, frantically pressing a towel to Max's open wound. It does nothing; soaking the towel through in seconds.

"I'm sorry," Max slurs. The adrenaline is making him numb. He tips forward to rest his forehead on Daniel's shoulder so he doesn't have to look into those wide, panicked eyes.

_Beautiful eyes._

Daniel exhales sharply on a bitter laugh and looks away for a second. Ah, so Max had said that part out loud.

"Gonna call you a doctor, okay?" Daniel whispers. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, hands slippery with Max's blood.

"No, I don't," Max mumbles. "Doe dat niet."

"What?!"

"...Don't want anyone to find out."

"You're going to bleed out and die. Don't be fucking stupid," Daniel snaps, regretting it instantly when Max's eyes slip shut in resignation. That was probably the type of shit that made him do this in the first place. Made him mutilate his perfect body. Made him take a knife to his skin and open it up.

Daniel calls the hotel number, knowing they have medical staff staying here too. He can't worry too much about people finding out, because Max's dead body would be a lot harder to cover up than an admission to hospital.

"Hi, yeah. I need a doctor. Room 112. He cut an artery. Yeah. Okay. Please hurry."  
His voice cracks. He wants to hold Max but he can't, he has to put pressure on the cut. Keep him awake, keep him talking.

He brushes his hands through Max's short hair, pushing it off his forehead. The kid's pupils are dilated, barely focused. It's something like adrenaline mixed with an endorphin high.

"Why did you do this, huh, babe?" he whispers, cradling Max's face with his hands.

"I lost," Max shrugs.

Daniel opens his mouth to answer, but then he hears the commotion of (hopefully) the doctor arriving. It's a lady, accompanied by the hotel receptionist who must have given her the key.

"Don't come in here," Daniel snaps at the receptionist. He feels a little bad when he turns tail and runs, but no one can find out about this. It would hurt Max a lot more than any blade could.

"Okay, Max, let's take a look..."

*

The young driver was discreetly driven to the nearest hospital, all energy drained from him so Daniel had to speak for him. He just held onto his hand and said over and over,

"Don't tell anyone. Don't tell his family or the press."

He didn't even know if they were listening; the medical team were focused on patching him up and regaining the blood he'd lost. He was doubtful that no one knew what was going on, especially people in the hotel, or Red Bull, who at any moment could start wondering where their prize driver was.

Daniel paced outside the operating theatre. His mind was racing faster than his car ever could. How had he not realised this was happening? How could Max have kept it secret?  
He had noticed the damage on Max's hips and thighs when he got into the bathroom. Raised scar tissue, criss-crossing over his pale skin. Some pink, some white. Then there were the red, scabbing lines of the fresher injuries, that made Daniel's stomach turn in anger, sadness, pity.... shame, that he hadn't figured it out sooner, that if he had, Max might not be fighting for his life right now.

It seemed like forever until a surgeon came out, looking around for family, then settling reluctantly for Daniel.

"He's stable, but he's lost a lot of blood. It was so lucky that you were there."

"Can I see him?"

"Well, he's resting now. But yes, you may. I'm going to contact his family to let them know what's going on."

"Hold on a second," Daniel said. The doctor frowned. "He doesn't want anyone to find out about this. Least of all his family."

She sighed, then shrugged. "That's okay. It is Max's decision, and he will wake up very soon to make it. I trust you can take him back to wherever he's staying?"

"Yeah, no worries. Thank you."

She gave him a curt nod and he left to go see Max.

They'd stripped him of his bloodstained clothes and put him in a thin hospital gown.

Daniel swallows. He approaches the bed tentatively, not wanting to see Max so vulnerable.  
He lifts the covers to see the thick bandage on Max's leg. They cleaned some of his other cuts, too, and said he needs to come back to have the stitches out in a little more than a week.

"I'm sorry you felt like you had to do this," Daniel sighs. He sits down and takes Max's cold, clammy hand. "I should have been there for you. I shouldn't have left."

Max doesn't stir, his chest rising and falling with every quiet, peaceful breath. Daniel keeps hold of his hand and waits.

*

They don't speak on the car ride home. The Dutchman looks absolutely exhausted, barely able to keep his eyes open.

Daniel notices his fingers keep straying absently to scratch and worry at his cuts through his pants.  
The Australian grits his teeth to stop himself saying something.

On the way back up to the hotel room, Max stumbles. Daniel is there right away, gathering him up to his unsteady feet and helping him into bed.

"We have to talk," Daniel tells him. There's no trace of humour in his voice. He doesn't want Max to feel like he's angry, but he definitely doesn't want it all to be dismissed or twisted into a joke.

"I'm tired, Daniel," Max answers. His tone is almost cold. He throws an arm over his eyes.

"I guess suicide attempts can be pretty exhausting," Daniel retorts.

"It wasn't a suicide attempt," Max counters vehemently. He exhales slowly, then tilts his head to look at Daniel. "Please," he says softly. "I just want to sleep right now."

Daniel sets his mouth in a firm line. He wants to reach out, stroke Max's hair, kiss his cheek. But his eyes are closed and there's an air of finality around them.

_Fine,_ he thinks determinedly. _Fine. We'll talk tomorrow._

*

Daniel struggles to get to sleep. It had been a crazy day. First the race, then finding Max...  
At some point, he must have drifted off, because warm morning light is filtering in through the window. He gets up, stretches, feels his body aching from being cramped in the car yesterday.

He checks in on Max, who is still sleeping soundly. It's easier to mistake him for someone older with his confidence and aggression on the track and his wicked sense of humour, but asleep like this, his 21 years make him seem impossibly young and innocent.

Daniel goes to make breakfast for them both. Soon, they'll be parting ways and it will be another couple weeks before they meet back up in Germany. He wants to make the most of their time together, and have that chat.  
He gets absorbed in making some avocado on toast and jumps when he turns to see Max standing at the kitchen counter.

"Morning," Max says wryly. His hair is sleep-messy and he's just in a shirt and boxers. Daniel's heart skips a beat.

"Morning sunshine," he answers, trying to act cool. He hands him a plate of food and they sit down to eat together in comfortable silence.

Except, it isn't so comfortable as usual. Daniel's thoughts are running record laps around his brain as he tries to think up a good way to bring up Max's self harm. And it doesn't help that he can see Max daring him to mention it, with that familiar challenging look in his blue eyes as he chews a mouthful of avocado.

"When I left, we didn't really talk about it much," Daniel begins. "But maybe we should have."

Max swallows his mouthful and puts his fork down, about to say something, but then thinks better of it. He wanted to say, _you know, you leaving has nothing to do with.... this._ But first, he wants to hear Daniel's point, and second, that's a lie. It has a little something to do with it. Max could show Daniel the scar on his right side, the deep, heartbroken incision he made the night he found out his teammate was leaving Red Bull. But he won't, because he can see in Daniel's concerned eyes that that would hurt him just a little too much- the idea that he was responsible for any of these scars, even if he suspects it already. _You're nothing special,_ Max wants to reassure him. _Almost everyone I know has made their mark on my body._

"I want to be here for you," Daniel carries on when he knows Max is hearing him out.  
He's pleading for Max to open up.

The young driver cracks a small smile and reaches for Daniel's hand. "You are here."

It's true. Max hadn't known what to do with himself after he learned Daniel was moving to Renault. In his mind, their friendship was already over- Daniel wouldn't have any more time for him, there wouldn't be any more banter or memes or video games or almost kisses or plane rides where he fell asleep on his shoulder. But the Australian had promised they'd still be friends, that surely Max understood why he was leaving (and yeah, he got it), that _nothing will ever tear us apart honeybunch_ at which Max couldn't help but laugh and punch him on the arm.

Daniel looks away for a second and bites his lip. He turns Max's hand over and traces his palm.  
When he looks back, Max knows what he's going to ask.

"Last night. What happened?"

He could make a joke, about drunken one night stands or- or-

He doesn't. He pulls his hand away and watches Daniel's heart break when he shutters his expression.

"Max. You have to talk to me."

"I don't have to do anything," Max hisses. "I don't want to talk about it."

"You lost that privilege when you called me into that bathroom," Daniel says, he's so fucking angry and frustrated that he can't catch his breath, "and showed me how you'd purposefully opened your femoral artery!"

"Those are some big words," Max laughs humourlessly. He narrows his eyes. "I was going to bleed out, so I called for the closest person. It doesn't mean I want a heart-to-heart. I'm fine. It was an accident, it won't happen again."

"It shouldn't have happened in the first place," Daniel snaps. "How can you justify this? It's- it's-"

"It's what?"  
The utter calmness of Max's question is unnerving, to the point where Daniel feels hypnotized into answering, but in a resigned tone.

"-Crazy," he finishes quietly. "It's fucking mental, mate."

Max stands up. He pushes his chair back and the scraping sound is loud in the small kitchen. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes.

"I can't be sober for this conversation," is what he ends up saying.

Daniel looks at the clock.

"I have a flight later," he says, then shakes his head, pausing. "No. This is more important. I'll take you out to dinner, alright?"

Max throws up his hands in silent acquiescence. 

*

After a few hours of autographs, phone calls, post-race interviews, more phone calls, Daniel gets back to the hotel. The team were lenient with his wanting a break, probably because of his good Sunday result, and maybe there was something in his tone that told them this is important.

Max was cheerful. Daniel caught himself sighing and shaking his head every time Max cracked a joke or laughed, because how could he pretend everything was okay like that? But maybe it was. This was the norm for Max- after a race, after anything remotely negative happened, even sometimes just because he could- he looked out his collection of razor blades , knives and box cutters, and slashed absently yet methodically over his skin. Then he went about his day as normal, as though crusting scabs weren't littering his thighs, as though dark red wasn't staining the material of his pants.

Daniel calls his mum to let her know his flight is rescheduled for tomorrow. At first, she's disappointed, but he tells her he's really worried about Max.

"What's wrong? Is he okay?"

"I can't tell you, Ma, but it's really serious. He needs me here I think, just for today."

Daniel comes to sit back down next to Max.

"Of course, baby. I hope he's all right," his mum tells him. "Ti amo, figlio. Non vedo l'ora di vederti."

"Anche tu, mamma. Ciao, ti amo."  
Max is hanging on his every word, to the point where Daniel kind of worries he's picked up Italian, but when he puts the phone down, Max shrugs.

"I like when you speak Italian," he grins sheepishly.  
Daniel stammers a surprised "Oh. Oh, well- thanks," cursing himself for letting that catch him off guard, then tries to regain his dignity. "Italian for dinner, then. There's a place down the road."

He lets Max drive, who, like many racing drivers off the track, is surprisingly laidback off it.  
They head to the corner of the restaurant. Neither mind so much if a couple of fans spot them, but when the whole restaurant gets involved, it's too distracting.

"Have you ever, like, gone to a restaurant like this and no one recognised you?"

"Of course I have," Max rolls his eyes. He orders some kind of vegetable carbonara, Daniel goes crazy and has the lasagne.

"I totally get why I can't, but I hate not being able to eat what I want," Daniel grumbles.

"You are eating what you want though. How many calories in that lasagne?"

"I'll work it off tomorrow." At Max's raised eyebrows, he amends, "Maybe not tomorrow, but I will."

Max grins. "Relax, I'm not going to tell anyone. And at least we can eat more now, than before."

They eat and chat about random shit, from whether or not Bottas is really giving Hamilton a run for his money, to where they went on holiday as kids. Daniel practically licks the plate clean and then slurps up some of Max's carbonara. His companion is more focused on getting off his face on some expensive wine. 

It's both unnerving and comforting to see how Max can act so normal, so laidback and happy, even after all the crazy shit that's just happened. The banter is as easy as always, and somewhere in the back of his mind Daniel holds the thought, _I care about you so much._  
  
Daniel watches him drink and decides that's enough small talk, the elephant in the room has outstayed its welcome.

"Would it really be so bad if people found out?" he asks conversationally, hoping Max will catch his drift. He wouldn't be the first sportsman to have some personal issues. So many people have drug addictions, alcoholism- yes, this feels a little deeper, stranger, but doesn't Max deserve to race _and_ get some support?

"Are you serious?!" the Dutchman exclaims, tongue loosened by the alcohol. "Everyone would be disgusted. Or think I'm not fit to race. I bet Leclerc would fucking love that."

"Er, I don't think so," Daniel shakes his head thoughtfully. Charles doesn't seem like the kind of person to use that against someone, even his closest rival.   
"Okay, not the paddock, but what about your family? What about your father?"

Max makes a face that Daniel interprets as _no way, Jose,_ and Daniel is kind of glad because that is someone he gets bad vibes from. Although, if something happened because he wasn't there, he'd never forgive himself, and Jos is important to Max. Maybe that really is the best person for him to open up to.

"Well, you guys are... close? I'm sure he'd just want to help you through it, like-"

"He already knows," Max interrupts tiredly, sighing, rubbing his eyes.

Daniel gapes like a fish for a second, not proud of it. That hadn't even crossed his mind.

"Well, when did you start?"

"When I was 16."

"And when did he find out?"

"When I was 18."

In the face of Max's matter-of-fact replies, Daniel feels fretful. "So, what happened?!"

"He said, 'some men turn to drink, some turn to drugs, others turn to sex. And I see this is your way.' He would have sent me to therapy, but if it got into the press, my career would be over. So he said, you know, whatever keeps you going."

Daniel's hands had gone to rub the back of his neck in shock without him even realising.

"Don't be like that. If I didn't have this, I don't know how I would cope."

Daniel is still trying to get his head round the concept of a father condoning his son's self-injury as a coping mechanism so long as the press don't get wind of it. He's failing miserably.  
And it's also beginning to dawn on him that Max _wants_ this. He doesn't want to stop, because it helps him cope with stress. Daniel can't swoop in and save him from this dangerous addiction because he doesn't want to be 'saved'.

Max's expression softens, going from blunt firmness to gentle kindness. "You don't have to worry. I told you, it won't happen again. I'll keep it under control and everything will be fine."

He really sounds like he believes it. Daniel wants to ask, _what happened on Sunday to make your hand slip like that? Where was your control then?_ but he can't bear to argue, and his fear of seeing Max close off to him again is overwhelming.

Instead, he's quiet. "Let's call it a day."

Max follows without quarrel. The short ride home is silent, and when they get back to the room, Daniel stops him at the doorway with a hand on his shoulder.

He trails his fingers down to the hem of Max's shirt, questioning. Max lifts it up for him and tugs his pants down a little on one side. Daniel feels the strangest mix of pride and horror, to be the only person on Earth to see the extent of Max's scars.  
He brushes his hands over the cuts.

Max shivers, and closes his eyes.

"You're amazing," Daniel murmurs. His thumb strokes over Max's jaw. "And you're going to be better than all of us."

He's always known it, deep down, but it kind of pissed him off to think about. That despite everything he does, Max will always outperform him in the end. But that's just racing. This is something more; some reassurance that Max needs, no matter how bitter or insecure Daniel might feel about racing with him, against him.

He lets his fingertips trace over the soft ridges and the scabs, dipping down to mourn them all.

"Ah... Dan, stop," Max says awkwardly, trying to shift away, grabbing his wrist to stop his wandering hands.

Too late. Daniel sees the obvious shape of his erection when he glances back.

They're frozen in place for a second, Max screwing his eyes shut as though he can will the embarrassment away. When he opens his eyes, Daniel's gaze flickered away from his crotch and right back to staring at him steadily, with this emotion Max has noticed many times over the years, but not quite identified up until now.

_Oh, fuck, mate, I'm sorry._

_Haha, happens to the best of us, right?_ is surely what Daniel will say back.  
Something stops him from doing that, though.

And that something is, seconds later, Daniel's soft, "Do you really want me to stop?"

Max returns his gaze; open, honest, wanting.

"No," he says hoarsely.  
  
*

After he came for the third time, Daniel calls it off. "Look- I'm just as up for it as you are, but my penis needs a break," he'd muttered, and Max had laughed a little hysterically until there might have been some tears. He let Daniel clean him up with a flannel and lay back in his arms when the Australian sat back down. 

"I can't believe we just did that," Max groans. 

"You can't? But the sexual tension has been brewing for months, years-"

"I mean I wanted to," he interrupts, twisting in Daniel's hold to get more comfortable, "I just- did not think it would happen. Ever."

Daniel just smiles. He tries to ignore the thousand intrusive thoughts along the lines of, _bad idea, irresponsible, taking advantage, dangerous,_ and kisses the top of Max's head, trailing his fingers over his pale shoulders. 

"Can I sleep in your bed?" Max asks softly. The words bleed into one another, exhaustion mixed with alcohol. 

_Why not? I've already given you a blowjob, jerked you off and let you grind on my dick,_ Daniel thinks hopelessly. 

"Sure," is what he actually says, a little too brightly.

Max practically falls off the sofa and goes to hunt for some fresh boxers. When he pulls them up, they catch on the bandage and he winces. 

"Does it hurt?" Daniel questions him, more sharply than he'd meant. 

"It did," Max says darkly, but Daniel gets the unfortunate impression that he resents the past tense of that statement, and _wishes it still did._ "It just itches now."

Max falls asleep almost straight away, head resting on Daniel's chest, a hand splayed possessively on his stomach. 

Daniel stays awake, thinking, remembering the way Max's fingers had curled in his hair and pushed him gently down to his knees. He wanted to laugh at Max assuming he was totally down to do that, but there he was, letting Max set a brutal pace into fucking his throat, so... he shivers. He was so into it and it was a little embarrassing- after years of holding back, years of impeccable self-control, you had to forgive him for being a little needy. He was licking come from his fingers and opening his mouth up so Max could press his tongue in, trying not to make a sound but was completely unsuccessful. Every time he tried to take back some semblance of control, Max would push him back down and unravel any coherent thought, feeling more as though _he_ was the horny, desperate 21-year-old instead of the patient, responsible, experienced adult.

Just your typical stress relief with your ex-teammate, who you've been pining after for years, and just happens to be almost a decade your junior. 

_Formula 1 made me down to suck dick,_ Daniel despairs.

*

When he wakes up, he glances at the clock to see it's 8:02. Max is snoring softly, clinging onto him like a koala.

He asks himself, as he does every time he wakes up with someone new in his bed- _was this a mistake?_

Well, on some levels, it's the stupidest thing he's ever done. First of all, Max is way too young. He knows the scorn he'd be met with if he actually expressed that thought, but it's true, even if Max thinks he knows what he wants. Secondly, Max is a rival. Sure, they're friends, but sleeping together? That's dangerous. And thirdly, maybe what makes him feel the most guilty, is that Max has a lot of shit going on, and it probably isn't ~~mind-blowing~~ sex that he needs right now, but love and unconditional support through his problems. 

He doesn't have the heart to leave though. He won't tell Max this was all a mistake, not yet at least, because he knows exactly what kind of reaction that would garner. An expressionless assent, followed by a locked bathroom door and some cuts so deep they probably require stitches. _Like clockwork,_ he thinks wretchedly.

Max shifts in his sleep, then his eyes start to blink open. Daniel holds his breath, watching him figure out where he is and with whom he's sharing a bed. Max had got pretty drunk last night and maybe he's about to come to his senses and tell Daniel to get the fuck off him, perverted bastard.

"Ugh, my head," Max groans instead. He hides his face in Daniel's neck. 

"Aspirin?" Daniel asks.

Max frowns, pulls back to look at him, then understanding dawns. "Oh, right, yeah. That would be amazing." His voice cracks more than usual and Daniel has to stop himself from smiling.

He shifts and Max grabs him to stop him moving.

"You know, I'm not telekinetic," he deadpans, but feels secretly pleased that Max wants to hold on to him. He allows him to move away to go and search the cupboards and get a glass of water. 

"So that was all pretty crazy," Daniel ventures. 

"Mhm," Max says noncommittally. 

"Tell me what you're thinking, man. I'm trying to make this work," Daniel sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He's trying to be the responsible one. "You're not giving me much. What are we doing? Is this a good idea?"

Max knocks back the aspirin and puts the glass back on the bedside table. "No," he answers eventually. "It's not a good idea."

"So, what? You want to forget about it? I can do that, as long as we stay friends, we can't ruin that just because of a drunken mistake. I mean if I stopped talking to everyone I've ever given a drunk blowjob, then I would not be speaking to most of Duncraig-" 

He knows he's rambling, but he needs, he needs to know this hasn't fucked everything up. It's what's stopped him from making a move for what must be a few years now- stopping himself from leaning in for a kiss or tangling their fingers together has become second nature, an art he's perfected.

Max snorts despite himself. "We're still friends."

"Great!"

The silence that follows is loaded with the notion that it doesn't end there, that Daniel can't leave it at that happy ending. He knows he's right, though, because ignoring it now, pretending everything is okay, is only going to end in disaster further down the line. This is not a sustainable coping mechanism. It's really, really not.

He sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair, trying again for the last time. "I know you don't want to talk about it any more, but I need to know you're gonna be safe."

Max doesn't reply, just narrows his eyes.

"You should talk to someone about this. A professional."

Max can be very cold. There's times when he is so standoffish and unfair, so unyielding and headstrong that Daniel honestly wants to hit him. 

They've crashed and cost each other places, caused DNFs and massive rows spanning days where they pass each other in the garage without so much as a nod, as generally happens with most teammates. Through it all, the tension ebbs away and they laugh it off eventually. 

Now, Daniel sees that same cold, shut-off, stubborn Max who won't accept he's in the wrong. He doesn't even blink until Daniel, at the end of his tether, grabs him by the shoulder and tugs him round to face him. 

"I don't need to," Max answers flatly. All the affection and contentment filters out and away from his body language, replaced by weary defensiveness. "Everything is fine. This is just how I do things."

"You nearly died," Daniel repeats for the fiftieth time in the last couple of days, realising now the futility of the statement in the face of Max's utter indifference.

"That was one mistake that will never happen again. I wish I hadn't even told you," Max says grimly. 

"If you don't get some help I will tell the press about it myself!" Daniel shouts, losing his patience.

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Oh, you think?"

"I wish I had died," Max says furiously. "Instead of you forcing me into destroying my career, my reputation."

He stands, pacing the room, regretting the words almost the second they came out. Daniel's face had fallen. 

"So, I just let you bleed to death? What happens next time, when I'm not there to get you to hospital?"

Daniel grabs him and shakes him. Max grits his teeth, clenching his fists, and Daniel really, really thinks that he's going to hit him in the face, but his hands fall defeated to his sides. They're both breathing shallowly, and Daniel backs away. He knows he's being harsh, but it's like Max can't see how much all this is hurting him. He's not trying to mess with his head or be a prick for no reason. He's never felt so at a loss for what to do. It's like- when he fucks up, he has to do better next time. When his car fucks up, the engineers have to do better next time. But this? He feels guilty, _responsible,_ yet it seems there's nothing he can do to fix it. Instead of talking it through or finding some practical ways to help him deal with it, he just... had sex with him. He just... deepthroated his cock. _Good on you, Daniel. Tackling the issue head on._ He put his stupid little crush ahead of sorting out what's going on in Max's head, and that makes him feel disgusted with himself.

"I know I'm doing this all wrong," he mutters, frustrated, turning away. 

He isn't all that good with this kind of shit. He can be a shoulder to cry on, gives awesome hugs, can make a joke out of anything. These types of emotional minefields, though, and he's lost. Especially when it's Max, who gives nothing away. 

"I think I should get back to my room," Max says into the quiet. He moves silently past his ex-teammate and Daniel barely hears the click of the door shutting. He slumps onto the bed, exhausted, half of him wanting to chase after him, the rest wanting to curl up in a ball and pretend none of it even happened. 

He could do that, actually. He can leave Max to calm down, then in a couple days, tag him in a meme or reply to his Instagram story. Business as usual, like the past few days were a bad dream. Would that be the kindest thing to do? Probably. The easiest thing to do? Definitely. 

But Daniel is nothing if not somewhat masochistic, and really believes in dying on his chosen hill. This one happens to be, _I won't give up on you, Max._

He grabs his phone from the bedside table and scrolls down to Max's contact. He's about to type a massively long-winded message explaining himself, how he didn't mean to upset him, and how he only did it because he's worried, and then changes his mind. 

_Sorry,_ he writes, and sends it before he can chicken out. 

He wonders what Max is doing, if he's going to be okay. What he thinks of Daniel right now- probably something laden with a lot of disease-related expletives. He tries to put it out of his mind and start packing his stuff, texts some friends to meet back up in Australia, scrolls through social media, and checks over and over that he hasn't left anything in the hotel. In the cupboard, hidden away, he stumbles across the knife he'd confiscated from Max and feels it all overwhelm him again.

It's several fraught hours later, sitting on the plane back home, before he gets his reply. 

The eye roll emoji. Daniel stifles a laugh and the relief and affection bubbles up inside him. 

_I rly am sorry man. I messed up i know. I just wanted to help you. Let me know if i can do anything._

_Anything?_ ;)

When you get to Daniel's age and you like to think you've matured just a little bit, you honestly forget how horny you are in your 20s. _Jesus,_ he says inwardly, wondering what he's signed up to, but a little happy twist in his gut lets him know it's okay.

_Even that u fuckin horndog._

Max replies with upwards of ten kissing emojis and Daniel has to force the ditzy grin off his face. It's been a wild ride but he knows everything will work out like it always does. He's going to be there for Max this time, physically, emotionally, whatever, and pay more attention to what makes him go off the rails. And give him space, that's important. 

The next few days go by and he's happy with friends and family, before it's back to work in Germany. They meet up on the way to the paddock. Without even thinking about it, his eyes flicker down to where he knows Max's scars are, wondering if there are any new marks, wondering if he's had the stitches out yet. Then he snaps out of it, looks up and grins sheepishly.

Max puts an arm round his shoulder. That feels right. That feels good.

He doesn't have much time to think about Max during the race weekend until it's all over.

The DNF was irritating (as per) but not much of a surprise in the shitty conditions. Watching Max win from the sidelines just makes him happy and proud, relieved that there won't be any need for a hospital trip tonight. 

He comes to congratulate him and finds himself enveloped in a tight, champagne-soaked hug that he returns with more emotion than he'd known he was holding back.

"Thanks, mate," Max mumbles happily into his shoulder, and Daniel knows that it goes a little deeper than the race.

**Author's Note:**

> My projection knows no bounds!! Anyway, I hope... someone actually... enjoys this? Your feedback means the world.


End file.
